Cue for Quiet Part 8

"So," with a regretful sigh, "Solution One leaves only Solution Two.

We'll grant that you must be kept under cover."

I wondered if Stein was somewhere at the earphones of a tape recorder.

For someone with as big a job as the old man likely had, it seemed that we were talking fairly freely. He went on.

"And that Solution Two has within itself another unsolved problem; who watches you, and who watches the watchers?"

That didn't matter to me, and I said so.

"I suppose not to you, but it would matter to the army, and it would matter to the navy, and when J. Edgar Hoover gets around to thinking about it, it will matter to the FBI."

"So what? Would I get a choice?"

He was curious for a moment. "Would you want one?"

"Maybe, maybe not. I had a uniform once. The FBI go to college and take off their hats in the house, but they're still cops, and I don't like cops. Don't look at me like that; you wouldn't like cops either, if you made less than a couple of hundred a week. n.o.body does. So I'm prejudiced against everybody, and just what difference does it make?"

"Not a great deal. I was just curious." He was honest, anyway. "But you can see the possibilities, or the lack of them."

"Look," and I got up to take as many steps as the cabin would allow.

"This is where we came in. We could talk all day and get no further.

All I want to know is this--what's going to happen to me, and when, and where?"

He followed me with his steady eyes. "Well, at the immediate moment, I'm afraid that--" He hesitated.

"I'm afraid that, quick like a bunny, you're going to have one solid headache if we don't quit using the same words over and over again.

Here I am stuck in the middle of all the water in the world, and I'm tired, and I'm disgusted, and I'm starting to get mad. You're trying to smother my head in a pillow, I've got nothing but a first-cla.s.s run-around from you and everyone I've seen, who has been one man named Bob Stein. I see nothing, I know less, I get cold shoulders and hot promises."

I sailed right on, not giving him a chance to slide in one word. "Why, there must be ten thousand men and maybe some women right upstairs, and who knows how many within a few miles from here, and do I get to even pa.s.s the time of day with any of them? Do I? You bet your sweet life I don't!"

"There aren't any women within miles of here, except nurses, and maybe a reporter, and I'm not sure about that."

"Nurses and reporters are human, aren't they?"

Had he found a c.h.i.n.k in the armor? He frowned. "Is it women you want?"

"Sure, I want women!" I flared at him. "I want a million of them! I want Esther Williams and Minnie Mouse and anyone else that looks good to me. But I don't want them on a silver platter with a gilt chain. I want them when I want them--my wife and the waitress at Art's, and the beer I used to drink would taste a lot better than the beer you said I'd get and never seen!"

The Smith stood up and I sat down. "Women and beer. Anything else?"

"Sure," I snapped at him. "Women and beer and traffic piled up on Gratiot and the same double feature at all the movies in town--" I got a look at him. I felt silly. "All right, take out the needle. You win."

He was a gentleman. He didn't laugh. "Win? Yes, I suppose I win."

Before I could think of anything else to say, he was gone.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

PART II

Smith knocked early the next morning when Stein was still clearing the breakfast coffee. For that time of day he was disgustingly happy.

"The customary greeting, I believe, is good morning, is it not?"

I gulped the rest of my cup. "Yeah. What's on your mind?"

He sat down and waved away Stein's wordless offer of a cup. "How would we like to take a little trip?"

We. The editorial we. "Why not?"

"This little trip--how would you like to go back home for awhile?"

"Home?" I couldn't believe my ears, and I stared at him.

He'd made a slip, and he was sorry. "I meant, back Stateside."

I slumped back in my chair. "Then you heard me the first time. What's the difference?"

"Quite a bit of difference. No, Stein, you stay here. We're all in this together."

"Sure," I said. "Stick around. I'm the last one to find out what's going on around here."

He didn't appreciate my sarcasm. "I wouldn't say that, Peter."

"Forget it. What's the story?"

"We want you to go back where we can run some tests, this time as comprehensive as we can arrange."

I couldn't see why what we'd done wouldn't be enough. "Don't tell me you have more than the Bomb up your sleeve."

No, it wasn't like that. "There aren't more than four or six that know anything but that the Bomb was set off prematurely because of motor failure on the drone. The general knowledge is that it was just another test in routine fashion. But, as I said, there are a few that know the truth. They think it desirable that you be examined scientifically, and completely."

"Why?" I felt ornery.

He knew it, and showed a little impatience. "Use your head, Peter. You know better than that. We know you're unique. We want to know why, and perhaps how, perhaps, your ability can be duplicated."

That appealed to me. "And if you can find out what makes me tick I can go back to living like myself again?" I took his silence for a.s.sent. I had to. "Good. What do I do, and when?"

He shrugged. "Nothing, yet. You'll go to ... well, let's call it college. It shouldn't take too long. A week, maybe, maybe two, or four, at the most."

"Then what?"

He didn't know. We'd talk about that later. Okay with me. If a doctor could find out how I was whistling chords, all well and good. If not--could I be any worse off?